Red Tiger Hymn
by wildskysong
Summary: Tyger, tyger, burning bright.  A new serial killer with Red John connections surfaces, and he seems determined to play a bloody game of cat and mouse with Lisbon and her team. He could lead them to Red John at last, but he could also destroy them utterly.
1. revelations 19:17

**A Mentalist fic that's been bouncing around my laptop for a while, because I really need to take a break from everything else. **

**My first multichapter Mentalist, woo!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own.**

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><p><em>And I saw an angel standing in the sun; and he cried with a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper of the great God; That ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of mighty men, and the flesh of horses, and of them that sit on them, and the flesh of all men, both free and bond, both small and great. <em>–Revelations 19:17

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><p>Red Tiger Hymn<p>

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><p>The only light in the room comes from a guttering candle.<p>

When the man wakes up, it's to a room full of shadow and one lonely flickering light, and he can't help but be afraid. He doesn't remember much, only fragments, flashes of an alley, car headlights, and sharp, stinging pain in his neck. He doesn't know where he is, only that it's dark and smells like dust and fire.

He can't move. From the neck down he's numb, unable to even twitch away from the soft, dry laugh that comes from the other side of the candle.

"Comfy?"

The man blinks—a flinch—and there's another dry laugh. Someone stirs in the shadows and lifts the candle, and the tiny light flickers.

"I'm glad you're awake. I was starting to think I'd been a little too forceful."

The man in the chair flinches again as the candle comes closer, a bright, hot little spark. He can't see the holder, but the holder can see him, and pats his shoulder comfortingly.

The man can't feel it.

"You're my first," the man in the shadows explains. "Alone, anyway. I haven't quite gotten the hang of the whole bag and tag part yet. It's a process."

Fear starts to swim in the man's gut, and he wants to talk but finds that he can't.

"Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. You won't be able to speak."

The shadow-man keeps walking, and the little prick of light wavers.

The man in the chair can't breathe.

"Do you know why you're here?"

He doesn't.

The shadowy man sighs and sets the candle down. The little fire flickers. Shadows dance, and the man thinks he sees knives.

"No? Ah, well."

He can't breathe.

"You are here to help me," the other man says. The fire burns orange off a gleaming knife. "Now relax. This will all be over soon."

A knife shines silver, and the candle snuffs out.

* * *

><p>"Jane," Lisbon says, kicking the couch.<p>

Jane starts awake, blinking rapidly. "Hi."

Her face softens. "Were you actually asleep?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," he says, flapping a hand. "It was time for me to get up anyway. We have a case, yeah?"

"Yeah. You sure you don't want to go back to sleep? I can pass this one off to Serial, they're itching for some new cases."

"I'm fine," Jane says again, stretching. "I can sleep in the car. So, new case?"

"Yes." Lisbon starts walking briskly, aiming for the elevator. "You might want to pack an overnight bag for this one."

"Out of town case?"

"Not really. It's over in Rio Linda, so it's not far, but they're telling me it's going to be a long one."

"Oh?"

Lisbon shrugs. "The local PD was sketchy on the details. They've found something nasty, that's for sure, but they're out of their league."

"A challenge, then."

"Could you maybe not sound so excited about someone's death?"

Jane spreads his hands. "I'm not excited about someone's death per say, but c'mon, you've been bored too, admit it. It's been a slow summer."

Lisbon rolls her eyes, punching the down button. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Jane grins.

"Insufferable bastard. Go home, pack a bag. Meet me in the parking lot in an hour?"

"Will do."

"Good," she says, and gives him a Look. "Promise me you'll behave?"

Jane grins, and goddamnit, she _hates _it when he smiles like that. "Promise," he says, and she makes a mental note to buy a few dozen bottles of aspirin.

* * *

><p>It takes nearly an hour to get to Rio Linda because of the traffic. Lisbon hates traffic. She's really tempted to turn on her siren and plow through the stalled cars, but that's technically against regulations, and Jane's all for it, and what Jane's all for, she probably should be against.<p>

It's still tempting, though.

Jane, for his part, actually dozes, for a little bit anyway.

"You feeling okay?" Lisbon shoots him a worried glance, and Jane smiles back blearily.

"Fine," he says. His hair's sticking up from where it was pressed against the glass, and it kind of ruins the put-together air he's trying to pull.

Lisbon raises an eyebrow.

"Really," Jane says. "Just fine."

"You sleeping okay?"

"Meh." He shrugs. "No less than I usually sleep."

She eyes him but lets it slide. He isn't cracking up yet, so she doesn't need to start dosing his tea again.

It might be a good idea to buy some sleeping pills later though, when he's not looking. Just to be prepared.

In the back seat, Rigsby jerks awake, gasping and kicking Cho in the stomach. Cho grunts and glares, and Van Pelt stifles a giggle.

"Wusgoinon?"

"Nice of you to join us," Jane says cheerfully, like he hadn't been napping five minutes ago.

Rigsby groans. "My head is killing me," he mutters. Wordlessly, Lisbon hands him a bottle of aspirin.

"We should be there soon," she says. "Why don't we go over what we know, while we wait for these _idiots _to remember how to drive?"

"Patience with the masses, Lisbon," Jane says sagely.

"Oh, shut up."

"Hey, if you'd let me drive, we would have been there half an hour ago."

"In pieces, yeah. Now hush. Cho, read the file?"

"Single body found in a Rio Linda warehouse at eight fifteen this morning," Cho reads. "Body found by the owner of the warehouse, a local chicken farmer."

"Is that it?"

Cho nods. "Just about, yeah. They haven't released many details."

"Damn," Lisbon says. "We're really going in blind this time."

"We've had worse," Jane points out.

"True."

"We'll get there soon."

"I know."

"You're tense."

"I'm not tense."

"Yes you are, I can see it in your shoulders."

"I'm _fine, _Jane."

"I'm not saying you're not fine, I'm saying you're tense."

Wordlessly, Lisbon reaches behind her, and Rigsby gives the aspirin back.

* * *

><p>When they get to the warehouse, it's nearly two in the afternoon and she doesn't have to be a detective to see that the local cops are bored, pissy, and freaked out.<p>

"That bad, huh?" she mutters under her breath, and pops another aspirin. She gets the feeling that it's going to be a very long case.

Jane steps out of the car, stretching and smiling widely.

Oh yeah. A long, long case.

"You Agent Lisbon?"

One of the LEOs, a big, burly guy, stomps over to Jane and looks him up and down.

"Oh no," Jane says. "_She's _Agent Lisbon. I'm just the consultant."

The cop gives her a look, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. So a sexist cop, then. Wonderful.

"I'm Senior Agent Theresa Lisbon," she says instead, offering her hand. "CBI."

The cop takes her hand slowly, looking her up and down. "Detective Rowcliff," he says. "Rio PD. Took you guys long enough to get here. The coroner's been bitching about heat and decomp for the last two hours."

Lisbon smiles, and Jane gets that gleam in his eye that means he's planning something nasty. She tries her best to give him a look that says _no, bad Jane, down_.

"Traffic," she says. "You know how it is. Fourth of July's coming up, everyone's going to barbeques and fireworks."

"Right."

"This is my team, Agents Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt, and Mr. Jane, our consultant."

Rowcliff tips his hat and leads them under the tape. "I gotta tell you," he says. "I didn't wanna bring you guys in. I think it's time our department got took on some real crimes, but my superiors insisted. They say this is a little out of our league."

"What exactly is this? Your office was sketchy on the details."

Rowcliff snorts. "Local poultry farmer came into his warehouse this morning and found a dead guy in it."

"We know that much," Lisbon says patiently.

Jane mutters something (probably insulting) to Rigsby, and he chokes back a laugh. Lisbon glares.

"If it was just a dead guy, we wouldn'tve called you. We get our share of dead guys, you know."

"Right."

"Anyway, this guy's been cut up pretty bad. Coroner says probably just one attacker, but the vic had to've been tied down or something because he died in the chair. No defensive wounds, no sign of him fighting back, just blood, and a whole lot of it."

"Okay," Lisbon says, nodding. "We can handle that."

"That's not the weird part. We've seen worse here. Not by much, but we've seen it. What's weird is the writing on the wall."

Lisbon's eyebrows rise and she feels Jane go stiff and alert behind her. _Oh shit. _"Writing?"

Rowcliff nods, scratching his chin. "Some weird Biblical mumbo jumbo. You'll have to see for yourself."

_Oh, fantastic. _

"Peters," the LEO barks, and a short, balding man looks up and comes over. "This here is Sam Peters," Rowcliff says. "He's the coroner and the head of our forensics team. He'll take you through."

The coroner nods to them and leads the Serious Crimes Unit through the warehouse doors. Inside, the whole place smells faintly of fire and dust and Van Pelt sneezes, wincing at the stale air. The first half of the warehouse is mostly farm tools; rows and rows of chickenwire, pliers, tractor parts, and gasoline. The second half is empty except for a chair in the middle, and in the chair is one of the most mutilated bodies Lisbon has ever seen.

Gaping wounds, ranging from short, quick stabs to long, shallow slices decorate what once was an athletic man. Blood soaks his clothes and the floor around him, and splatters arc off in all directions.

"Oh, God," she mutters.

Jane brushes against her arm. "Look," he says, and nods.

Directly past the body, painted in terribly familiar letters on the wall, are a few sentences, clearly written in blood.

The letters are clumsy, childlike, like the killer wasn't sure of how to make them, yet, and Lisbon feels her blood run cold.

The first sentence reads _Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper of the great God;  
>That ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of mighty men. <em>

The second reads _tyger, tyger, _and Jane's face goes very still.

"Jane," Lisbon says. "Jane, look at me."

He does, and she can't read the expression in his eyes but it's not a good one.

"Jane, this probably has nothing to do with Red John. It's okay. It's just a coincidence, that's all."

"You don't really believe that," he says, and she doesn't. "There are no coincidences with him, Lisbon, I've told you that before. It's one of his."

_One of his, _Lisbon thinks, her heart sinking. One of Red John's. A network. There's an entire _network _of people like Red John, bad, awful, horrible people, and they all, it seems, know about and like taunting Jane.

When they find Red John, Lisbon's going to shoot him before she arrests him. Not anywhere vital, of course, but somewhere painful. Somewhere very, very painful.

"Cho," she says, half-turning. "Get the boss on the phone. Tell him we have a possible Red John connection—"

"There's no possible about it," Jane says loudly.

"—and that we're going to need our own forensics team on this."

"My team is more than capable—" the coroner begins, apparently affronted. Lisbon stops him with a hand.

"This is now the CBI's," she says. "You and your people are done here. We'll take the body and any evidence you have."

"Hey," Rowcliff says angrily.

Lisbon glares. "No arguments on this." The LEO and the coroner glare, but don't argue.

"Lison," Jane says. A manic edge creeps into his voice and he stares at the dead, bloody man, fingers curling and uncurling.

"Do you know what the first sentence means?"

He looks up quickly. "Looks Biblical," he says. "Book of Revelations, I think." He looks down again, staring hard at the victim. "Lison, look at his face. Does he look familiar to you?"

She frowns and leans in, careful not to get any of the blood on her. "Now that you mention it…" The shape of the man's nose is familiar, and so is the set of his mouth. She can't be sure because there's a particularly vicious gash cleaving open his cheek, but he does look familiar. If his eyes were open, she thinks they'd be dark brown. "Yeah, he does look kind of familiar."

Jane leans even closer and he's in danger of falling into the pool of blood now. His lips are pressed together so tightly they're white, and she can see his fingers shaking.

"Lisbon," Jane says slowly, unsteadily. "Lisbon, I know him."


	2. love's secret

**Hi again! Thank you so much for the reviews, favs, and alerts! It really makes my day :) I can't respond to them yet-the site's doing something bizarre-but they mean alot!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist.**

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><p>Never seek to tell thy love,<br>Love that never told can be;  
>For the gentle wind doth move<br>Silently, Invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,  
>I told her all my heart,<br>Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,  
>Ah! she did depart!<p>

Soon after she was gone from me,  
>A traveller did come by,<br>Silently, invisibly,  
>He took her with a sigh.<p>

-William Blake, _Love's Secret_

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><p>Red Tiger Hymn<p>

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><p>The last person slips through the open gate, glancing nervously right and left. He's late, and he doesn't want his companions angry.<p>

Things always…messier, when his companions are angry.

"Tyger, tyger," whispers a voice from the shadows.

The last person doesn't even twitch. "Did He who made the Lamb make thee?"

"Leave him alone," says another voice. "We know it's him. Who else would it be?"

"True," says the shadow-voice reluctantly. "You're late."

The last man shrugs and steps into the dim light. He's wearing dark clothes and a blue tiger mask. His eyes gleam from the slits. "I was held up."

Another slinks from the shadows and snorts. A pale white tiger mask roars silently at the newcomer. "We agreed to put this first."

"There's no point in ruining our cover," says a black tiger mask. The white stripes on its face are bold and it snarls viciously.

The blue tiger, in comparison, is still and calm. "So I take it you all have heard?"

The white tiger snorts. "Of course we've heard. It's all over the news! What is he thinking, letting it get this out of hand this early?"

"Quiet," the black tiger hisses. "He knows what he's doing."

"But still," the white argues. "It's dangerous, letting a young one get this much publicity this quickly. Todd Johnson got half the attention, and look what happened to him. Patrick Jane found him out in less than three days."

"Johnson was an idiot," the black snaps. "We all knew that. He was never going to be anything more than a toy, a little sideshow. He was never going to be one of _us._"

"_We've _never been discovered," the white tiger shoots back. "We've all been hunting for years, and no one's ever linked our kills. This young one's been active for less than a week and Patrick's Jane's on his case!

"Calm down," the blue tiger breaks in quietly. "That in of itself is an impressive accomplishment. Maybe he's the one?"

"To complete the circle?"

The blue tiger shrugs. "Maybe."

"A new tiger," says the black one, tapping the snarling mask. "We haven't had a new one for a while. All the young ones have been failures."

"Yes," the blue tiger says, sighing heavily. "I had hopes for O'Laughlin, though."

"O'Laughlin?" the white tiger scoffs. "He was only in it for the money. He was a jackal, not a tiger."

The blue tiger shrugs. "I liked him."

The black tiger taps the mask again. "A fifth and final member," he says thoughtfully.

"The red tiger, to complete our circle," the blue says. "Fitting, I think."

"Should we approach him?"

The blue tiger laughs, his mask still and serene. "No," he says. "No, let him find us. Our mutual friend will point him in the right direction soon enough. He is still very young. No doubt the boss is testing him."

The two other masked people nod, accepting.

"When should we meet again?"

"A week," the blue tiger says.

The roaring white huffs and the snarling black mutters, but they both nod again.

"Keep an eye on the young one," the blue tiger orders. "Watch the progress. We will discuss him or her again in a week."

"Fine," the white tiger mutters. "Assuming Jane doesn't catch him first."

The blue tiger laughs, and the other two get the distinct impression that he's grinning underneath the mask. "Perhaps this tiger will be a bit more than Jane can handle."

"One can only hope," says the black.

"Until we meet again," the blue tiger rumbles. "I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart."

The three tigers touch hands, and say together "trembling, cold, in ghastly fears, ah! she did depart!"

* * *

><p>"Rusty Moore," Lisbon reads, fighting the urge to crumple the paper in his hands. "What the hell is this guy doing here?"<p>

Jane shrugs and paces, shoes clicking off the wooden floor. They're back at HQ and Lisbon holds the official AFIS hit on their vic's fingerprints—Rusty Moore, the cook from the Todd Johnson case last year, who attacked Keely Farrow the night she died.

But he's not from the Rio Linda area, so what the _fuck _is he doing stabbed to death in a chicken farmer's warehouse?

"It's all connected," Jane says, pacing.

Lisbon watches him go back and forth, back and forth, and it makes her head hurt. "Stop that," she says. "You're not helping anybody."

Jane gives her a long look and keeps pacing.

Of course.

"Sit down before I tackle you."

He gives her another look and apparently decides she being serious (which she is) and collapses into the nearest chair.

"Rusty Moore," he mutters, rubbing his forehead. Lisbon offers him a bottle of aspirin and he takes it, popping three without even reading the dosage.

"Do you think this new killer is trying to send us a message?"

"Oh yes," Jane says, leaning back. "A very big message."

"Know what it is?"

He smiles thinly. "Not yet."

Lisbon sighs. "I didn't think so. Let's go over what we've got." She stands and crosses over to the tack board. "Rusty Moore." She taps his picture, the mug shot from when he was arrested last year. "Former murder suspect, convicted of aggravated assault, spent ninety days in jail before he was paroled."

"Found dead in a chicken farmer's warehouse," Cho adds. "The owner, Mr. Brandon Simpson, has no connection with the vic or, as far as we know, Red John."

"We can rule him out," Jane says, standing also. Lisbon glares at him and he promptly ignores her. "He has nothing to do with this."

"How do you know? We haven't even interviewed him yet."

"The warehouse lock was broken," Jane says. "Very cleanly, probably with a hammer or some sort of blunt object. Why would Mr. Simpson want to damage his own property? Also, he's a big, strong working man, perfectly capable of smashing that cheap little lock with a good kick."

Lisbon turns that over and nods. "Okay. We can rule Simpson out then, for now." She crosses his name off the list. "So Simpson's warehouse was broken into, and Rusty Moore tortured and killed there. Our ME estimates he was killed at about two in the morning, and he was found close to nine. What was Moore even doing in Rio Linda? That's way outside his paroled range."

"Making a run for it," Jane says immediately. "His clothes were worn and nondescript—he was trying to blend in. He had on old Nikes, good for running, and there was nothing in his pockets but some cash and a bus pass."

Lisbon nods. "Reasonable conclusion. So Moore skips out on his parole and ends up in Rio Linda, where a killer happens across him, takes him to a warehouse, and butchers him."

She chews her lip, looking over the meager evidence.

"Rigsby, Cho, you guys go canvass all the bars within a two mile radius of the warehouse. If that doesn't work, check homeless shelters. Flash his picture around, see if anyone heard or saw anything."

"You got it, boss," Rigsby says, scooping up his jacket. Cho pops an aspirin—for his back, probably—and they're off.

"Van Pelt, you check the Rio PD database, see if there's anything similar to this in there."

The redhead nods.

"Jane, you wanna go back and see what you can see?"

He shrugs. "Let's go."

Lisbon nods. "Okay. Van Pelt, call Wainwright too, get him up to speed. Tell him where Jane and I are going."

Van Pelt nods again, and they're gone.

* * *

><p>"So you think this is Red John," Lisbon says, when they're in the car and still (<em>still<em>) stuck in traffic.

Jane, who's been fairly quiet the whole ride, nods. "Has to be," he says. "This has to be one of his students."

"Students?" _Jesus. _"You think he's teaching people how to be killers now?"

"It looks like it. Look at Todd Johnson. Young sociopath with homicidal tendencies, needing a little direction in his life, a little guiding hand to point him in the right way. Red John stepped in and showed him that way, taught him how to refine his craft, to _enjoy _his impulses."

"That's sick," Lisbon mutters. Red John as a _teacher_?

"Remember Jared Renfrew, a few years ago?"

Unfortunately, Lisbon did. Jared Renfrew, the idiot who thought he could run from Red John and ended up dead in a Tijuana bathtub with a hooker and a message written in his own blood.

"_He is man,_ Renfrew wrote, but what if he didn't mean man?"

Lisbon blinks. "You think he meant something else?"

"_Many,_" Jane says quietly. "I think Renfrew meant to write _he is many._"

_More than one Red John, _Lisbon thinks, and her head hurts. "Like Todd Johnson and Timothy Carter," she says.

"Exactly. A network. A network of Red Johns, of killers."

"And you think Rusty Moore's killer is part of this group?"

"He wrote _tyger, tyger,_ Lisbon." Jane looks away, out the window at the crawling traffic. "That's what Red John said to me in the hotel, and what Todd Johnson said just before he died. It's their calling card to me."

"Why you? Why did Red John and his pack of psychos pick _you, _out of thirty-seven million people in the state?"

Jane shrugs. "I taunted him," he says quietly. "And he tried to break me, but I came back. I interest him."

Lisbon tightens her hands on the wheel. "You _interest _him."

"Brett Stiles thinks he loves me."

She nearly chokes. "_What?_"

Jane shrugs, and it doesn't take a mentalist to see how jerky the movement is. "He says that what Red John does, taunts me, takes from me, _saves _me, on occasion, is a form of love."

Lisbon shudders and can't stop her hand from going to her crucifix. "I won't let him near you," she says fiercely.

Jane smiles and pats her hand. "It's not me I'm worried about."

"You think he'll come after us?"

Jane shrugs again, that same harsh, jerky movement. "Maybe. Not today. He's given me a new challenge, you see, and I need you. He knows that."

"A new challenge," she murmurs. "So, what, he pits all his underlings against you, to see if they can hold up."

"Maybe. I don't know." He looks tired, like he's barely slept. "Moore's murderer wrote _tyger, tyger _on the wall in Moore's blood. It's not a smiley face, but it's a calling card. Red John wants me on this case."

"Then maybe we should take you off."

Jane looks at her again. "You really want a repeat of last time?"

She flexes her fingers, remembering almost involuntarily the feel of Sam Bosco's blood slipping underneath them. "No," she says softly. "No I don't."

"So we work this case, and maybe catch another one of Red John's lackeys."

"And get one step closer to the man," Lisbon says fiercely. _Or men, _but she doesn't say that.

"Right," Jane says, and it sounds hollow. "One step closer."

They pass the rest of the drive in silence.

* * *

><p>When they get to the warehouse again, it's much quieter. A few LEOs are still hanging around, guarding the location, and they nod when Lisbon flashes her badge.<p>

Inside, it's much less busy and she can get her bearings in here now that the body is gone.

"What do you see, Jane?"

He walks around the room carefully. "What do _you _see?"

Lisbon resists the urge to roll her eyes and goes along with it. "Um, everything's very neat, has its own place."

Brandon Simpson keeps all his farming equipment in neat order. Everything has a place, from the chicken wire to the tools.

All except one pair of pliers, it would seem.

"There," she says, nodding at the tool where it sits propped up in the corner, and Jane smiles.

"Very good. A pair of pliers, used, I'm guessing, to bend the lock on the back door out of shape so no one could surprise him while he worked. Anything else?"

"The writing on the wall suggests narcissim," she says. "He's taunting us. He purposefully drew us, specifically you, into the investigation, which suggests he doesn't think he'll get caught."

"Good," Jane says. "Anything else?"

Lisbon shakes her head.

"Well the Biblical verse suggests religious delusions. This is possibly a man who thinks God speaks to him, or he is God. Since it is a verse from Revelations, I'm going with the second theory."

"So he thinks he's _God_?"

Jane shrugs. "Or a Biblical character, maybe an angel or a Horseman of the Apocalypse."

"So, what, he's cleansing the world?"

"Maybe." Jane continues walking. "There's a drop of candlewax here that would support that theory—candles are an integral part of many religious rituals.

"Now the sheer violence of the attack indicates a very angry individual. He went after Moore with everything he had. He didn't hold back at all, even in the slightest. So this probably isn't his first kill, but it's definitely his first ritualistic one. There haven't been any other cases in the area with writing on the walls. _This _writing is clumsy. The killer smeared his own work a few times. He's not used to it yet, but he got both his messages across."

"So we have a narcissistic, deluded, relatively inexperienced killer who thinks he's God?"

Jane shrugs again. "Possibly. He's also highly organized. He chose a warehouse he knew wouldn't be in use and he made sure there was enough space inside to work. He picked a man who skipped parole, who was, by definition, trying to remain inconspicuous so people wouldn't notice him."

Lisbon nods, processing all of this. "We need more information," she says. "How did he restrain Moore, for one thing? There's no evidence of ropes or tape or physical restraints of any kind. The ME's thinking drugs, but she doesn't have a tox screen yet."

"Drugs would fit," Jane says. "A paralytic, maybe."

"I'll pass that on. Anything else?"

Jane shrugs. "Not right now."

Lisbon nods. He's holding something back, probably, because he's _Jane, _but she's willing to let it slide for now. "Okay. Why don't we meet up with Cho and Rigsby, see if they've found anything? We can always come back later, and we need to wait for the forensic stuff anyway."

Jane nods, and together they step out of the warehouse into the bright sun.

Lisbon punches Cho's number in and waits for him to pick up.

"_Yeah, boss?_"

"Jane and I are done at the warehouse. Where are you? We'll join you."

"_Club on Eight and Maplewood. The Silver Dollar._"

"Okay. Found anything yet?"

"_No._"

"Damn. Meet you in fifteen."

"_Okay, boss._" Cho hangs up and Lisbon beckons to Jane. He stops his intense scrutiny of the side of the warehouse and follows after her, deep in thought.

She's nearly to her car when her phone rings again, and Van Pelt's number flashes across the screen.

"Hello?"

"_Boss, I found something._"

"What?"

Van Pelt pauses, and Lisbon's heart sinks. "_I think I found some more victims._"


	3. fire and ice

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! Y'all are awesome. I hope you're enjoying this so far!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist, the poems and quotes I use, or any of the pop culture references herein.**

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><p><em>Some say the world will end in fire,<em>_  
><em>_Some say in ice.__  
><em>_From what I've tasted of desire__  
><em>_I hold with those who favor fire.__  
><em>_But if it had to perish twice,__  
><em>_I think I know enough of hate__  
><em>_To say that for destruction ice__  
><em>_Is also great__  
><em>_And would suffice._

-Robert Frost, _Fire and Ice_

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><p>Red Tiger Hymn<p>

* * *

><p>In. Out. The rhythm of breathing and running, feet slapping against pavement, air stuttering in his lungs.<p>

Patrick Jane runs like the Devil himself is after him. Which might be true. He doesn't know, anymore, how much Red John watches him.

So he runs. He can't escape, he knows this. Red John won't let him escape. But he can run, and running gives him the illusion of escape, like a hamster spinning its wheel or a dog racing alongside a fence.

He can do this. He can keep running.

His lungs burn. He's gone five or six miles this morning and it's starting to hurt now, low in his chest. It spreads like fire, and he tries not to think about it.

_Tyger, tyger, _Timothy Carter's voice whispers. _Burning bright. _

Whispers, whispers, always whispering. Timothy Carter, Todd Johnson, Red John laughing over the phone. Whispers that he can't get out of his head, no matter what he's doing.

He dreams about them, sometimes, Red John's tigers, and they're all standing outside his house laughing and burning, waving their fiery hands.

"Daddy," his daughter whispers in his dreams (always whispers), "Daddy, can I go play?"

He wants to say no, Charlie, no, they'll eat you alive, but instead he smiles and pushes her forward. "Go ahead, sweetie."

And she plays with burning tigers while he watches from the window, and the walls around him drip blood.

Tyger, tyger, burning bright.

He runs.

He should get back to the case. They have three new bodies to go over, three more people killed like Rusty Moore. A crime scene too, a motel room where the most recent vic was found. He'd wanted to go last night, but Lisbon said no, said go home, Jane, rest up.

Rest up. Yeah right.

She should know better than all of them that he's not going to be sleeping much until this is over. _Tyger, tyger, _this new killer wrote.

Those words are calling to Jane. Red John is calling to Jane.

He comes around the house now, Red John does. Ever since they killed the San Joaquin Killer he's been dropping by, once or twice a week when Jane's been gone.

He leaves things. Flowers, once, a new teapot another time. Some food when Jane stopped going to the grocery story.

It's a form of love, Brett Stiles said. He's courting you.

Jane runs. Sacramento is beautiful this time of year but it's god-awful hot, and his insides are dry like sandpaper.

Every step starts to burn and his lungs ache, his heart scrapes against his ribs, but he keeps running.

He has to keep running.

If he stops…

If he stops, he feels like he's going to fall.

Tyger, tyger, burning bright.

Patrick Jane wipes sweat from his face and doesn't stop.

* * *

><p>"Oh God," Lisbon says, looking down at the three bodies. Jane wrinkles his nose unhappily. Sam Peters, the Rio PD coroner, flicks the light off and looks at them expectantly.<p>

"Well?" he says. "Think these are your guy's?"

They're in the Rio PD Coroner's office and there are three dead bodies stretched out on stainless steel tables. Each body is horribly mutilated, just like Rusty Moore's was, and there's no doubt in Lisbon's mind that these three are his earlier victims.

"Where were they found?"

Peters shrugs. "We found these one in the motel," he says, pointing to a skinny guy with sandy hair, "this one in an alleyway," he points to a balding Asian man covered in tattoos, "and this guy was found under the overpass." He nods at the third vic, a huge, middle-aged man with a bulging moustache.

"And there wasn't any writing on the walls where they were found?"

The ME shakes his head. "No. I was at all three scenes and there was no writing anywhere. There was a lot of blood in the hotel, though."

"Were all of them drugged prior to capture?"

"Tox screens came back with high amounts of suxamethonium chloride."

"And that is…?"

"A muscle relaxant and paralytic," the ME clarifies. "Often used as a horse tranquilizer and in emergency rooms. It's incredibly fast-acting and doesn't last very long."

"So we're looking for someone with access to this drug," Lisbon says thoughtfully. "Does it come over the counter?"

"No. It comes as itself or the refined pharmaceutical forms Anectine, Scoline, and Quelicin."

"So it's hard to get ahold of?"

The ME shrugs. "I wouldn't know."

"Our killer is probably a doctor or a vet, then," she says, turning to Jane. "Someone with easy access to this drug."

"Not necessarily. He also has religious delusions, and not a lot of doctors and veterinarians are highly religious."

Lisbon chews her lip, thinking. Jane does have a point, but still. "I'll have Van Pelt look into it," she says.

"All four victims have been male," Jane says slowly.

"Could the killer be a woman?" Peters asks, leaning forward.

"Probably not," Lisbon says. "Most female killers prefer to poison or shoot their victims. In rare cases we've seen female serial killers who stab, but that's generally only one quick stab to the heart or throat, not multiple gashes."

"Women are typically calmer about it than men," Jane explains. "Female serial killers tend to be hyper-organized and almost detached about the whole process. They prefer poisons and guns, anonymous, impersonal weapons. Knives, on the other hand…"

"Are extremely personal," the coroner says, nodding. "So not a woman?"

"Probably not," Lisbon says. "Do you have identities on these three guys?"

"Yes. Motel guy is Adam Wright, twenty-four, a heroin addict. Arrested twice for aggravated assault, spent six months in jail and was then released. He's from the area. His body was found two weeks ago and the scene has been preserved."

The ME moves on, points to the tattooed man. "Jimmy Yuen, thirty-seven. He is _not _from the area. We found him in an alley three weeks ago. Dump job, the alley was clean."

He nods at the last victim, the big, mustached man. "Anthony Wallace, fifty-two, a biker and a drifter. H was found a month ago, also a dump job."

"So he's the first," Jane mutters, stepping up to peer at the body.

"So three people murdered in the same area within a month, and nobody thought to link them together?" Lisbon asks, incredulous. That just _rings _of sloppy police work to her.

Peters shrugs again. "We didn't have reason to think they were the same guy. Three different men, all different ages, found in different locations. That doesn't fit a serial killers profile—he's going across race, age, even hair color. The styles of killing are different too."

The ME moves over to the big, mustached man found under the overpass. "This guy, for example, is covered in hesitation marks. He was found nearly a month ago. You can see here and here that the knife went in a couple of times in shallow little cuts. The edges are extremely shallow and the wounds themselves are jagged, like he was shaking. Our killer was nervous."

"He was killed by two people," Jane says, apparently done. "Look at these cuts here. No hesitation, but big, strong, confident strokes. These cuts here," he pointed at gashes along the ribs and legs, "are lighter and shakier in comparison."

Peters leans in, frowning.

_Oh God, _Lisbon thinks, shooting Jane a glance. She can't read his face in this light, but she can see that his lips are pressed together in a thin white line and his hands are shaking minutely. He's been… off all day, and she can't help but make a mental note to go buy some sleeping pills later.

"Holy shit," Peters says. "You're right."

"Same with this victim," Jane continues, nodding at Jimmy Yuen. "Found in an alleyway instead of an overpass, but still killed by two people. You can see the strong cuts here, and the shakier cuts here and here, though they're steadying out."

"And this one?" Peters gestures at the last victim, Adam Wright. "Same thing?"

"Harder to say, but I'd bet on it."

"And he was found," Lisbon says, because she can kind of see where Jane's going with this.

"In a motel. That and the stronger cuts suggest that the killer was evolving through these murders, getting more comfortable, as it were."

"And the warehouse and the writings are him spreading his wings," Lisbon says, understanding. She remembers Jane saying that on the Johnson case—_he's learning to enjoy himself. _

Jane smiles. "Exactly. Through these four bodies—and there are probably more, you just haven't found them—our killer has grown. His mentor—" _Red John _goes unsaid, but Lisbon hears it anyway "—has taught him well. He was present for the first two murders, probably the third, but Moore? No. That was all our killer."

The ME nods, looking a little dazed.

"Where can we find Rowcliff?" Lisbon asks. "We'll need him to take us to the crime scene. And have these bodies sent to the CBI Coroner's Office, will you?"

Peters nods, not even arguing this time. He looks faintly sick. "My team will send over all the forensics from those scenes too."

Lisbon nods. "Good. If you find any more records of similarly-killed bodies, let us know."

"Will do," Peters says, and Lisbon beckons to Jane. "Rowcliff should be at the station. If he's not, he's down at the Badge, the cop's bar."

"Thank you," Lisbon nods, and they leave Peters with three mutilated bodies.

* * *

><p>Rowcliff is, unfortunately, off duty and so at the bar, and he's not too happy when Lisbon shows up.<p>

He bitches a little but takes them, and if only Lisbon could get Jane to stop watching the man like he's planning the best way to ruin him psychologically, it'd be great.

"Stop it," she hisses, hands tight on the wheel. Rowcliff's car is just in front of theirs and Jane hasn't taken his eyes off the back of the LEO's head since they started.

He does now, though, blinking at her. "What?"

"Stop staring at Rowcliff like you're going to destroy him."

"I'm not gonna destroy him."

"Or make him cry."

"Not even a little?"

"No, not even a little."

Jane sighs heavily but raises his hands. "Fine, fine, I won't take him down a peg. He could use it, though."

"Play nice," Lisbon orders. "We need his help and cooperation to get this done, and he won't give it if you ruin him."

"Buzzkill," Jane mutters, but he doesn't mean it. He's trying to make her smile, and she does just so he can feel better.

He probably knows what she's doing, but whatever. He smiles back and it makes him look less sharp around the edges.

Jane doesn't look so good.

Not like he's sick or anything (physically, at least), but drawn, tired. She knows he didn't sleep last night. He says he did, but she's not an idiot. She can see the circles under his eyes and the tremors in his hands.

He's not the only one who sees things.

"Are you okay?"

Jane blinks. "Fine," he says.

Lisbon looks him up and down. "Jane, I know this is a Red John case, but if you're gonna crack up on me, I need to know _now._"

_So I can plan for it, _she doesn't say. _So I can get all my excuses in line and save both our asses. _

He grins crookedly. "I won't crack up," he says. "Promise."

"Oh yeah? How many miles did you run today?"

He actually looks impressed, but he might be faking it. He's good at faking emotion like that, she's noticed. "Eight," he says.

"You better not do that," she says warningly. "You're not a runner, Jane, and you'll end up pulling something."

"Yes, Mother Theresa," he says with a smile, and his eyes flash teasing fire. "Want me to take my vitamins too?"

"Oh, shut up," Lisbon mutters, but she feels better. If he's teasing, then he's okay. It's when the teasing stops, when he turns sharp and spiteful, that she has to worry. He's okay for now.

She plans on keeping it that way.

"…Are you taking your vitamins?"

"I drink tea."

"Tea isn't the answer to everything, Jane. It'll ruin your iron count if you're not careful."

"Blasphemy! Tea is perfect! There's nothing wrong with tea!"

"Keep telling yourself that, Jane. When you develop anemia, don't come crying to me."

* * *

><p>Traffic in Rio Linda itself isn't so bad, and so they get to the motel pretty quickly, pulling up behind Rowcliff's car.<p>

"Are you ready?" she asks, looking sidelong at Jane.

He smiles and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Ready," he says. "At least there won't be any writing in this one, right?"

It's an admission, she knows, of just how much the writing and the _tyger tyger _and the bleeding smiley faces bother him.

"Right," she says, and together they follow Rowcliff to the local Super 8.

"Scene's still being picked over by analysts," Rowcliff says darkly, reaching for his key. "It's pretty bad in there."

"Lot of blood?"

"Oh yeah. We think the killer did it here."

"_Ers,"_ Jane mutters under his breath. "Kill_ers, _get it right you irksome idiot."

She pats his arm comfortingly. "Behave."

Rowcliff, fortunately, doesn't hear their little exchange and opens a door criss-crossed with crime scene tape. "In you go," he says.

They step inside, and Lisbon's first impression is that one episode of _Dexter _where Dexter walks into the hotel room and everything is so soaked in blood he throws up.

Neither Lisbon nor Jane throws up, but for Lisbon it's a close thing and Jane goes so stiff and pale he looks like he's on the verge of a seizure.

There's blood everywhere. Soaked into the stripped bed, the carpet, pooled around discarded sheets.

"Why wasn't the CBI called?" Lisbon demands, turning to glare at Rowcliff. He doesn't answer her, because he's gone white too, and she slowly turns back around.

Rowcliff and Jane are both staring at the same thing, and when Lisbon sees it, she feels ice creep down her spine.

Sitting on the stripped, blood-crusted bed is a little stuffed tiger, and a bright red bow is tied around its neck.


	4. inferno

**Hi! I put this work on hold to work on some other things, but I've had some chapters filling up my docs for a few months and I figured that I'd get them posted before the season finale. Sorry about the wait!**_  
><em>

**Disclaimer: I do not own Mentalist or any recognizable pop culture references you see within. **

* * *

><p><em>Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. <em>–dante's _inferno_

* * *

><p>Red Tiger Hymn<p>

* * *

><p>His fingers are slippery with blood. It makes holding the knife rather difficult but he manages, cutting here, slicing there, all done with the utmost control and precision.<p>

He pauses for a second to wipe sweat out of his eyes. Blood wells up from the cut, drips off the edge of his knife.

A drop of that precious liquid falls and splashes on the floor.

He breathes, and continues his work.

It would be so easy to kill this woman. A quick, clean slash to her throat, really, just a small movement, a second in motion. Her skin would give like butter.

So easy.

He presses the blade down again, steady, focused. He's nearly done.

"Clamps," he says, and other hands come in, quickly sealing off the intricate network of veins and arteries that pour blood throughout the body. Carefully he pulls at a piece of metal embedded in this woman's right lung, gently, almost tenderly.

Finally, after two hours of surgery, the piece of metal comes free. This woman is going to live.

After the metal comes out, it's just a matter of cauterizing and stitching and putting her ruined chest back together, and no one in the entire state puts bodies back together better than he does. Within another hour all of the woman's lovely blood is sealed back inside her body, and the surgery is complete.

The other doctors clap him on the back, amazed, admiring.

He smiles modestly, shaking off his fellows. He strips off his red-stained gloves, then his splattered scrubs, then his smeared cap. Red swirls away down the drain as the woman is wheeled away and the room sterilized.

Another surgery successful. Another life saved. A miracle.

He smiles. He likes creating those.

He prowls down the clean white hallways, hands behind his back. His eyes are sharp and blue, and everyone, from doctors to nurses to patients, smiles when they see him.

He waves.

As a trauma surgeon, he sees death every day. People come in wrecked, shattered, broken nine ways to Sunday, and sometimes it's damn near impossible to put them back together, but he tries.

Once, he got one of his own, a young woman who had been attacked in her home and left nearly for dead, bleeding from a dozen deep, gashes.

That was a surprise, seeing her, since he had been at her house only an hour previously, etching each and every one of those cuts himself. Her neighbor had found her, only minutes after he'd left, and her case had come under his skillful hands.

She died after twenty minutes on the table. He didn't fight too hard for her life, not really. After all, what was the point of undoing one's own work?

He's pretty sure Patrick Jane would throw a fit if he knew just _what _his archenemy did during the day. They've gotten to know each other better, yes, but poor Patrick probably likes to imagine he's some kind of villain or criminal even during the daylight.

No, that's not true. Patrick isn't an idiot. Hopelessly stubborn, of course, but not an idiot, not his Patrick.

He smiles, stepping into his darkened office. He wonders what it must feel like to be Patrick Jane, to be someone _that _angry, _that _determined, _that _intelligent when everyone else in the world is small and mundane and boring.

Frustrating, he imagines, and smiles.

He doesn't think Patrick has quite caught on yet. He's still a little stuck in the early stages of their relationship, one of hatred and vengeance and white tiger teeth. He'll grow out of it eventually, of course, but still. It's time the man broadens his horizons.

He traces the wood of his desk fondly. Patrick is growing. Already he's seen that his enemy can sometimes be an ally—he gave Red John the San Joaquin Killer to play with. That was fun.

The doctor sighs, settling in his chair. Sooner or later there will be another surgery to rush off to, another idiot mangling himself and needing repair. Sooner or later the Hunger will grow again and he'll 'lose' a patient, or he'll wander the streets and find a playmate.

Or he'll call up his newest tiger and set the young one on the hunt. He smiles. He likes that idea.

He flicks on the news and there the story is, leaked by some small-town coroner. A serial killer stalks the streets of Rio Linda. They haven't named the killer yet—that will come later, after the second ritual killing, or the third, or the forth.

And there will be more. This young tiger is particularly Hungry. He can respect that.

Red John reaches for his phone and punches in his student's number.

* * *

><p>The stuffed animal is mocking them.<p>

It sits, perched on the edges of Jane's couch, with its cute little face and cute little red bow, and its paws are crusted in blood.

The killer is taunting them. Taunting Jane. _Hurting _him, because Grace has seen the way he looks at the toy, sneaking, nervous glances when Lisbon isn't watching.

Grace won't have it. Patrick Jane is a good person. A little mean, sometimes, and a little crazy, but a _good person. _He doesn't deserve to be hurt like this. Grace won't let him be hurt like this.

(After Craig, Jane called her every day. He didn't offer her platitudes or sympathy, no, not Patrick Jane. He told her that yes, she should have seen it coming, and then he hardened her grief and guilt into anger, and he let her go.

Patrick Jane put her back together again.)

"Maybe we should take it away," she says, looking at Rigsby expectantly.

Rigsby shrugs, looking up from his phone. He's probably texting Sarah, if the little smile on his face is anything to go by.

"You think?"

Van Pelt nods, eyeing the thing. "It's just _wrong, _you know? A kid's toy in here, after being used for something like _that_?"

"It doesn't seem to bother Jane," Rigsby says reasonably. She rolls her eyes. Rigsby's a sweet guy, and some part of her will always love him, but he's just a _little _too oblivious sometimes.

So she tries manipulation. (Working with Jane has taught her something, after all.) "Imagine how you'd feel if that was Benjamin's toy," she says. "I mean, that's a kid's thing, and you know how Jane is with kids."

And Rigsby does know. He'd brought Ben in last week, and Jane had been smitten.

Wayne's face loses all of its color.

"We should move it," she repeats.

"We shouldn't," Cho shoots back. He's reading, face carved from stone. Which is sad, because he'd been warmer, these last few months with Summer. Grace is sorry that it didn't work out.

"Why not?"

"Because then Jane will find it and take it upstairs, and at least down here we can keep an eye on it and make sure he's distracted."

That, actually, is a good point, and Van Pelt grudgingly subsides. At least down here, they can watch out for Jane. They can protect him.

They _will _protect him. Van Pelt will be _damned _if she lets Red John or one of his pet killers hurt Jane again. He's been through enough, she thinks. They've all been through enough.

"Hey, what's that doing out of evidence?" Lisbon snaps, striding in. She looks frazzled, and a little worn ragged, but her eyes are bright and she has a cup of coffee in one hand.

"Jane got it from them," Cho says. "They've checked it over twice. There's nothing on it but old blood and dust."

"Where was it bought?"

"At a gas station, two blocks away from Adam Wright's motel room. It was bought this morning by a single mother of two. She dropped it on the way out, and by the time the manager went to pick it up, it was gone."

"We got video footage?"

"Nothing concrete. We saw the mom drop it, but whoever picked it up was out of the frame."

"Damn," Lisbon mutters. "We're dealing with someone who's smart."

As much as Grace hates to admit it, Lisbon's right. After four years in this job Van Pelt's lost a lot of illusions as to why people kill. When she first started, she thought all of their murderers killed because of petty things, like jealousy or anger, or because they didn't know anything else.

While she's been largely right, there are the others.

The ones who have other means, who are intelligent, who kill because they _want _to, because it's fun.

They're dealing with one of those killers now.

"Has anyone seen Jane?"

"He's upstairs," Van Pelt says helpfully. "I think he went to try and sleep."

It's nearly two in the morning, after all. Normal people are sleeping.

But Jane's not normal and she _worries _about him, all alone up there with his demons. He needs their help and he won't accept it, and Grace is afraid they're going to lose him.

She glares at the stuffed tiger on Jane's couch. Her fingers curl into fists.

"Go home," Lisbon's saying, scrubbing her own face tiredly. "Get some sleep. In the morning we're going back to Rio Linda and hunting this monster down."

"Yes, boss," they all say dutifully, packing up their things without any protest. Lisbon leaves, presumably to shut herself in her office and not sleep like she's telling them to.

Van Pelt looks up the darkened stairs, frowning.

She pauses for a minute, and then carefully makes her way up them, knocking on Jane's heavy door gently.

"Jane?" she calls. "Hey, you in there?" She pushes the door open, and Jane looks up from where he's packing his duffel bag on the bed.

He smiles tiredly. "Grace," he says.

"Hey." She tries to smile back. "Lisbon told us to go home. We're going back to Rio Linda in the morning."

"Marching orders," he says with a curving grin. "Thank you, Grace."

"You're leaving, right?"

"Yes," he hums. "I should at least try to rest. Wouldn't want Mother Theresa to get her panties in a bunch, now would we?"

It's an act, Grace knows it's an act, but she can't help but grin anyway. "Need any help?"

"No, thank you, Grace. I'll manage. See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Night," she says, turning and heading back down the stairs. He follows her, handling his bag and shutting the door gingerly.

"Good night, Grace."

She loses him in the bullpen when Rigsby stops to ask her if she wouldn't mind watching Ben over the weekend, and when she turns back around Jane is gone.

The stuffed tiger sits on his couch, its paws bloody, a red ribbon tired around its neck like a challenge.

* * *

><p>Lisbon rubs her forehead, blinking in the harsh morning light, and wishes she had another cup of coffee or three.<p>

"What do you mean," she says, with gritted teeth, "the story's been leaked?"

Detective Rowcliff tugs at his color, looking both annoyed and ashamed.

"There was a leak in the office," he mutters. "Somebody—we think Sam Peters, the coroner—started flapping his lips where he shouldn'tve and some reporter got wind of it."

"_Damn it,_" Lisbon hisses, glaring at the TV where the details of the Tiger Killer are exploding, sweeping across California and ruining the element of surprise. "Do you know what this will do to our investigation? The killer knows we're hunting him now! He could get scared and bolt, and we won't see him until he kills another three people!"

"Or," says Jane, cutting in smoothly, "he could get arrogant. They've named him now, they're giving him attention. That will feed his ego."

Rowcliff snorts. "The hell do you know about this psycho?"

"I know enough," Jane says, baring his teeth in a grin.

"We have to contain this," Lisbon mutters. "I want Peters out. He doesn't get case notes, he doesn't get to keep his autopsy records, nothing."

"Done," says the detective.

"I also want you to send all press to our liaisons at the CBI. We've got people there who are more experienced with this sort of thing. They can handle it."

Rowcliff nods again, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "That be all?"

Lisbon nods, and Jane waves.

"This is a mess," Lisbon says, rubbing her forehead. "What're we going to do, Jane? Peters blew it."

"We'll do what we always do," he hums, studying the board thoughtfully. "We need a pattern. Something that ties these victims together and brings them under his criteria."

"He's killing them for a reason?" Lisbons says incredulously. "He has a—a type?"

"Our killer's not a psychopath," Jane mutters. "A sociopath, probably, but he has a purpose, and a goal—he's not just killing randomly. He's organized, methodical. Why's he killing?"

"I want to know where Red John finds these people. I mean seriously, does he just walk outside and pick them up off the side of the street?"

"Madness is like gravity," Jane says with a crooked smile. "It attracts more madness. Someone like Red John will always find others."

"How, though?"

Jane shrugs. "Sociopaths are good at reading people, right? They can't comprehend normal emotion but they can recognize it in others. It helps them blend in. An empty person will always find other empty people."

Lisbon snorts, staring at the glossy pictures, showing each body in sad, stark detail.

"Four victims. All male. Different ages, races, and methods of killing. _Damn._"

"All found in out of the way or quiet places," Jane adds. "With the exception of Wright, of course, but even his motel was secluded from the main roads."

"You said this guy is smart?"

"Very."

"So we'll just have to be smarter," Lisbon says grimly, throwing back her shoulders. "We can use the media. Feed them false information, get the killer to relax."

"That's my girl," Jane chuckles. "Can't hold you back, tiger."

She rolls her eyes. "C'mon. Let's go revisit the murder scenes. Maybe we'll find something there."

* * *

><p>They don't.<p>

The first two scenes, under a bridge and a dirty little alley, are so filthy and contaminated that getting new evidence after all this time is impossible.

The motel room is picked clean already, only rusty, still slightly-damp bloodstains left as reminders of what happened there.

The warehouse has even less. They've taken the body and the blood off the walls, leaving only a few dark splotches and the farmer's tools.

"Nothing," Lisbon mutters hours later, tired and sore and _frustrated. _"We have _nothing _to go on."

"Not true," Jane counters mildly, studying the walls and the lines and lines of tools. "The killer was meticulous cleaning up, but we have enough to start looking. He has religious delusions and he knows the Bible. He's young, just starting out. He prefers knives."

"He knows who you are, and he's taunting you," Lisbon says.

Jane stills, but smiles anyway, reflexive like he does when he doesn't want to talk about something.

Well damn it, they're talking about this anyway.

"Yes," he says.

"Jane," Lisbon starts, then stops and starts again. "Jane, you can't let yourself get caught up in this case, you understand?"

He flaps a hand, dismissing her, but she won't have it.

"I'm _serious, _Jane. You can't get like you do, focusing just on this and on nothing else."

"I work better that way," he argues, but she plows on.

"This man—this _murderer_—has already shown that he knows who you are. He'd dangerous, Jane, and I can't have you so focused on this you miss someone coming after you."

"No one's coming after me," Jane assures her. "Red John loves me, remember? Our games are fun for him. He won't let me die."

"Are you sure? What if he's testing you? What if he's pitting his students against you to see how you match up, and if you don't, they'll kill you?"

"He wouldn't," Jane says, but she knows him well enough by now that she can hear the tiny, trembling note of uncertainty.

He looks tired. They all are, but he clearly didn't sleep last night, for all he went home to try. He's thinner, too, than he was at the start of the year. She can see the bones in his wrists and he's starting to lose some of the softness around his jaw. When he moves, he's all angles. Even the cut of his suit can't hide them.

He's losing it, and she's terrified of what will happen if—_when_—Red John tired of their little game.

"Jane," she says. "Please."

He pauses, pale blue-gray eyes flickering over her face. And then he nods once, shortly, and smiles again. "I'll take care of myself," he promises her.

"Good. 'cause I will lock you in basement, if I have to."

"Ooo, kinky," he says teasingly.

Lisbon smiles, but it's interrupted by her phone going off, harsh and jarring in their contained little world. Cho's number flashes across the screen, and she frowns.

"Cho?"

"_217 Reva Ridge Road,_" Cho says shortly, his voice tense. Her heart sinks. "_Get over here now._" He hangs up.

"Jane, we have to go," Lisbon murmurs.

He meets her eyes, his own unreadable. "Let's go," he says, and they do.

* * *

><p>217 Reva Ridge Road is another warehouse, smaller than the first one but even more isolated. The lock, like before, has been broken clean off and pale-faced rookies in PD blues sweep the place, wrapping it in tape and shooing away curious passerby.<p>

Rowcliff is standing by the door and he ushers them in, stone-faced and silent.

It's a bad one, then.

Together, Lisbon and Jane cross the warehouse, dodging cops and medical personnel. The familiar chaos of a new crime scene, before the shock fades and the weariness, the disgust at how one person could do this to another, sets in.

They see the blood first, pooled around a chair and splattered off into whimsical arcs around the body.

The body itself is awful. Lisbon takes one quick look and turns away, stomach rolling.

"Jane," she says, faintly. Her voice sounds very dim and far away.

"I know," he says. "I see it."

Written on the wall, still wet and glistening, are the words, _abandon all hope, ye who enter here. _

Below them is, _tiger tiger, :-). _

"Well," Jane murmurs. "At least we know he isn't scared."

"Boss," Cho calls. He's beside the body, face drawn. His fingers are pressed to the dead man's neck. "Boss, he's still warm."


End file.
